The Die Falls
by AimeryKrey
Summary: What might have been running through Caesar's and Posca's heads during the last hour of the dictator's life. Completed.
1. Part I

**_A/N_**Anything you recognise from _Rome_ belongs to HBO. Caesar, as in life, belongs to himself. This is intended to be a mix of 'The Kalends of February' and what the ancient sources say really occurred on the Ides of March (hence GJC's hair!).

**The Die Falls**

**Part I**

Pompeius Magnus' theatre was certainly impressive, mused Gaius Julius Caesar as he ascended the leaf-strewn steps of the en-suite senate chamber, which his late son-in-law had so thoughtfully added to his ostentatious entertainment complex eleven years before. Pompey's curia had proved unexpectedly useful since the Curia Hostilia – hallowed and ancient home of senatorial meetings for centuries – had been burned down during rioting in the year when Caesar defeated Vercingetorix at Alesia. It was also the first permanent theatre ever to be built in Rome; a clever move, that, to combine awing and pleasing the masses with placating the Senate. Caesar smiled slightly; Pompeius had always been a more adept politician than he had appeared: a useful ally and a much-missed adversary. Slain by lesser men in a foreign land full of sand and treachery.

The dictator paused as he reached the top of the marble steps and turned to face his accompanying party of clients, citizens who were bound to him in return for his protection and aid. As the most powerful man in Rome and so the most influential patron, Caesar had had to limit their number this day to avoid completely blocking the roads down which they passed on their way to see him into his last Senate meeting before setting off for the East. He reached up to tuck an errant strand of sparse, fair hair back into place under his laurel wreath, then raised his right hand to indicate his wish to speak.

"My friends, let me first thank you for accompanying me on this day of days. Three days hence I shall leave you in order to take up my sword and general's cloak once more to lead Rome's legions to glory against the Parthians. Too long have they kept the eagles they took from Marcus Crassus and his noble son, who served under my command in Gaul. Rome shall rule in the east as well as the west and civilise them both!" Again Caesar raised a hand to acknowledge the applause and turned to enter. He allowed himself a quick glance at his more noble companions and his secretary Posca, who stood to his right beside his two-dozen lictors bearing rods and axes, the formal escort of the dictator.

Decimus Brutus with his white-blond hair stood out against Marcus Antonius and Publius Cornelius Dolabella, the dark consul and consul-designate respectively. All three men were close associates of Caesar. Decimus and Antonius had been on his staff in Gaul, good officers both. Dolabella was a more recent acquisition – and a more surprising one, given that he had been married to Cicero's daughter until her death the previous February and had been an officer of Pompey's until Pharsalus. He would replace Caesar as consul when Caesar departed for Parthia, even though Antonius had voiced his objections to that choice both loudly and repeatedly. Caesar reflected that Antonius was possibly right to do so, but the younger man could not be left unimpeded while Caesar was away – talented soldier though he was, Antonius was far too likely to abuse his consular power and wreck the peace that Caesar had spent the last few years endeavouring to re-establish. It was also crucial that Caesar not seem deliberately to be keeping eligible noblemen out of office, even if they did have dubious past connections.

"Where is Lucius Vorenus?" Caesar asked Posca as they passed through the portico. The slave was juggling the assortment of scrappy bits of parchment and weightier scrolls that had been handed to his master as he walked through the city. Damn Vorenus. He had been promoted to the Senate purely as a political expedient and to act as Caesar's unofficial and unwitting bodyguard. What use was he if he disappeared at key moments? Never mind. Caesar had no intention of attending this meeting for any longer than was absolutely necessary: there was much still to do before he could leave Rome at least reasonably confident that the city wouldn't descend into chaos the moment he passed through the Porta Capena.

Caesar barely noticed Antonius being drawn aside by Gaius Trebonius, who should really have been on his way to govern the province of Asia by now. Brash, abrupt Antonius was rarely any use in a debate in any case and had definitely already been drinking by the smell of him. Another reason to keep Dolabella firmly in place. Gaius Caesar clutched the folds of his toga more closely around his left arm and strode into the dim interior of the meeting chamber, Posca trotting behind him.


	2. Part II

**Part II**

The omens had been disastrous for months, but this particular sacrifice was going especially badly.

Posca had served his master for over twenty years and seen him officiate at hundreds of such sacrifices as Pontifex Maximus. Always Caesar had somehow managed to transform even the worst signs into indications of his legendary good fortune. During the recent war, Posca had once looked on in horror as the general jumped from his landing boat onto the shore of Africa and tripped on the rough sand (or poorly tied sandals, Posca had afterwards asserted), falling flat on his aristocratic nose. Amusing if it had been any normal citizen, but a prodigiously bad omen in the eyes of the legionaries who witnessed their commander falling before blood had even been split. Fortunately, Caesar had averted the crisis by what even his cynical secretary considered a stroke of genius. Clutching the sand with both hands, he had cried out in triumph, not despair, "Africa! I have a hold on you now!" The cheering of his relieved army was thunderous.

The young cow was not going willingly to her sacred death this day. That in itself was unlucky and could warrant repetition of the whole ritual before the Senate could meet with the blessing of Jupiter. Posca observed the slight frown on Caesar's face as he poked at the animal's corpse, clearly visible despite the fold of toga praetexta raised over his head; apparently the entrails did not read well either. So much for a speedy exit.

Gentle footsteps drew Posca's attention towards the open archway. A mousy-haired man of about Posca's own age smoothly sidled up to him and jabbed an elbow sharply into his side.

"What in Hades is going on? They've been sitting in there for bloody hours waiting for our glorious dictator and frankly, Posca, I'd rather my balls be mashed into dog food for Cerberus than listen to Cicero go on about the ghastly state of the republic any longer."

"I thought you _admired_ your master's literary brilliance and engaging conversation, Tiro?"

"_Former_ master, you impertinent old bastard. Not that being freed has got me out of being bored to death. Obligations and all that. I've been taking down his unutterably officious musings since I could first hold a stylus and I won't be able to stop until either Antonius actually does nail his noggin to the rostra or my hand drops off. Go over there and see what's happening, would you?"

Inwardly, Posca rolled his eyes. He'd known Tiro for years – or Marcus Tullius Tiro, as was now – and considered him quite as pompous and self-obsessed as Cicero, but he was a useful source of information when properly plied with Caesar's best wine. That snippet about Aufidius Dento had been invaluable. "You can see for yourself what's happening. If the omens are bad, the meeting must be delayed until they aren't. There are two more victims standing by – just pray that he won't need any more than that!"

Tiro huffed noisily and drew his Greek-style cloak more closely around him. "Why's it so bloody cold all of a sudden?" he hissed, "It's playing merry hell with my knees."

"Remember the lighting and rain last night? That's what we call a storm, Tiro." The freedman glared darkly at the slave. "It's cooled the air right down. Terrified the sense out of the lady Calpurnia, which is why we were late getting here in the first place." Tiro's ears visibly perked up at that and Posca cursed his loose tongue. Still, it wasn't as if he wouldn't hear about it from other sources: Calpurnia's uncharacteristic shrieking and wailing had let half the forum know something was wrong. Nightmares, Caesar had quietly told his secretary later – and that in itself told Posca that Caesar himself had been shaken by whatever his wife had seen.

"Oh?" said Tiro with a grin, "Although I can't say I'm surprised. The old bat's not used to being woken up suddenly in the middle of the night."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, it's not like Caesar's got much use for her, has he? What with Servilia, then Cleopatra and all the others!" Tiro smirked at his own joke and didn't probe any further, but a change of topic was definitely in order.

"That cloak another gift from Titus Atticus, then?" asked Posca slyly. He'd discovered the covert relationship between Cicero's secretary and his oldest friend quite by accident. Opening the wrong door at a dinner party in Caesar's honour at one of Cicero's country villas, Posca had been mildly surprised to find Tiro and Atticus engaged in an activity that would have made Marcus Cicero blush to the roots of his hair and splutter incoherently if he'd known about it. The father of his country was still a prudish country boy at heart, despite having now been resident in the dregs of Romulus for over forty years.

"Shut it, Posca. Seriously. If Cicero ever hears about that, he'll have my guts for bootstraps. I doubt he'd see Atticus and me as an example of his beloved union of the classes, exactly. I told him I bought the cloak out of my savings. Why in Jupiter's name you had to go for a wander during a perfectly good banquet that evening, I still don't know. We were having fun until you blundered in." He paused. "Thank the gods and all their second cousins – looks like Caesar's shifting his pontifical arse at last. I'm starving. Have fun in Parthia, if I don't see you." With that, Tiro glided back out of the room to warn his patron that tyranny was on the move.

Posca turned back to the scene at the altar and found that Tiro was apparently correct. Caesar was washing his hands in a bowl of water held out by a slave, having whispered the appropriate prayers to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. To one side stood Decimus Brutus, who had actually persuaded Caesar to attend the Senate meeting in spite of Calpurnia's fears. Caesar had in truth been feeling ill – not that even Decimus could be told so. Posca fully agreed with his master that public knowledge of his epilepsy would be disastrous. Posca himself had advised Caesar to put the meeting off – if he were to collapse in the Senate itself…

Where _was _Lucius Vorenus? He'd been right behind them practically until they were in sight of the theatre. Clever idea of Caesar's, to use him as a bodyguard. Posca had been appalled when his master had dismissed his special guard of Spaniards after the Senate had collectively sworn to protect his safety. The state would descend into chaos if Caesar were killed, but such logic might not be enough to penetrate the thick skull of the average republican agitator. Come to think of it, where was Antonius? Surely he must have finished talking to Gaius Trebonius by now?

Caesar approached, emotions erased from his tanned face and eyes hard. "Go and give the petitions to one of your underlings, Posca. I want my own recording of the debate today, just in case. Follow me in. And if Antonius is out there idling with Trebonius, tell them both that if they don't get in here like the Furies are on their heels, I'll have them thrown off the Tarpeian rock. Rephrase as you like."

"Yes, _domine_." Posca sighed in relief and trotted outside to find his assistant, Ajax. The light bursts of rain had cleared up and people were starting to emerge from their houses and tenements into the sludgy streets to celebrate the festival of Anna Perenna, who was said to have been a lover of Caesar's ancestor, Aeneas. A crowd still gathered around the steps to the Senate chamber, awaiting news of what was said inside. Antonius and Trebonius, however, were not to be seen or found in the near vicinity.

Posca transferred the instruction to chivvy the two senators if he saw them to Ajax, then hurried into the chamber, wax tablets and stylus gripped tightly in his right hand.

He found chaos. Purple and white-clad senators and their secretaries fought their way out of the chamber, expressions of horror and fear distorting their faces. Posca wove his way through the press of men and wool, trying to catch sight of Caesar, who must surely have begun the meeting by now. Terror gripped the slave like an eagle's claws as he glimpsed the late-morning light catch steel and fresh blood on the marble floor.

Posca felt the blow to the back of his head only barely, before collapsing into darkness.

_--- _

_Author's Note_: Found Robert Harris's Tiro extremely dull, so I've corrupted him a bit! All the ancient sources record that the omens noted in the run-up to Caesar's death were pretty doom-laden. Caesar ignored them. My thoughts on why coming up in Part III!

Please review.


	3. Part III

**Part III**

An invitation had come the previous evening to dine at the house of Marcus Lepidus. It was a warm night for mid-March, but the sky had clouded over early and there was already the odd shower of light rain to dampen the party wear of the dictator of Rome as he and his party made their way through the more upmarket streets of the city. By Caesar's side, as always, his oldest, most trusted and currently extremely disgruntled personal agent bore the paperwork that needed to be completed that evening, despite the convivial setting.

"So you will go about Rome vulnerable to attack by any of those who mean you harm. An excellent idea, Caesar. Perhaps Antony will be kind enough to have me as a kitchen slave when you are dead?"

A torch in the bracket above the secretary's head revealed his cocked eyebrow. Caesar grimaced.

"Firstly, Posca, as you well know, you will be freed the moment my will is read." That particular clause had been written in for the past decade. Caesar didn't want any other man being master of Posca, even after he was dead. The slave knew too much and as a freedman, couldn't be tortured for information that might reflect badly on his memory or the fortune of his heir. "Secondly, as I say, I will have my tame senator at my side for my protection. Vorenus is a fine example of the kind of Roman who deserves to be raised to the nobility."

Posca barely suppressed a snort. "Who, so my reports tell me, initially opposed your advance into Rome and probably still considers you an unconstitutional tyrant. What's to stop him killing you himself?"

"I'm sure those reports also tell you that Lucius Vorenus is a dutiful and pious man, my dear Posca. He wouldn't dare to bring down the wrath of the gods upon his head by turning on his patron. You'll recall also that the entire Senate has sworn to guarantee my personal safety."

"Be that as it may, Caesar, Strabo and I are now spending at least half our time filtering reports that your noble senators are plotting your death before you leave for Parthia." In four days time. Not long to wait, then.

"Names?"

"Gaius Cassius, Publius Casca, Lucius Cimber – and Marcus Brutus." Well, that last at least was no surprise. The graffiti plastered all over the city had proclaimed that someone at least was trying to pull Brutus' strings – and Caesar had a good idea about who that person was.

"It's Brutus' mother hates me, not the boy himself, Posca. The pamphlet was not from his pen, as any of his correspondents familiar with his style could tell. He's never blooded his sword in battle, let alone killed a man in cold blood. He is upset about Macedonia, true, but that will pass."

Ah, Servilia. If the ruler of the world had one regret, it was that she had had to be cast aside to avoid the taint of scandal damaging his campaign against Pompeius. That landslide of auburn ringlets, the husky purr, her still slight and elegant figure – despite her years and his own - enchanted him even after nearly ten years with only ink and parchment between them. He had not truly come home from Gaul until he'd found himself in front of her at his niece's dinner party. Now she hated him, a necessity if she were not to cling on to any hope that he might return to her. Had he miscalculated? Did she hate him enough to manipulate her naïve son into joining a plot against him…?

Posca interrupted his thoughts. "Be more cautious, Caesar," he urged, "If they intend to strike, they will strike soon. The omens have been bad for months and all point to your destruction."

"Then we are fighting fate, which is impossible for a mortal man – which I still am, Posca, despite the ridiculous honours they heap upon me. I am Caesar – I will not be kept caged and bound like that pitiful brute we made of the king of fearsome Gaul. I would rather they struck me down swiftly than live the rest of my life cowering behind an armed guard."

"So be it, then. Let us hope that Lucius Vorenus is as formidable a bodyguard in your service as he was in Titus Pullo's."

Posca silenced, Caesar's thoughts turned to Vercingetorix – he had not lied to the bedraggled prisoner when he had said that the man's condition had indeed made him think about the fickleness of fate.

Vercingetorix's elevation to king of all the Gauls and his subsequent rebellion had very nearly reversed the progress the Roman proconsul had made in what were now three of the largest and potentially (once properly settled) most productive provinces in the empire. Caesar had had to re-pacify almost the whole area after the siege at Alesia. To see the formerly proud, regal Vercingetorix again after the years he had spent in captivity, on the eve of being dragged to his death, helpless and humiliated, had been a grim reminder of the games Fortune could play with the ambitious. Caesar had fought a civil war to avoid such degradation at the hands of Cato and Metellus Scipio. Both dead now, by their own hands, when he would have spared them.

They had refused to let him – the tyrant – spare them. They would not owe him their lives. Caesar inwardly sighed. He had no wish to be a tyrant. Conceivably, Rome ran more efficiently now that all his serious enemies had been eliminated, but he missed the challenge of a rival with Cato's tenacity or Pompeius' authority. Cicero simpered and placated, Brutus remained a pathetic stalk that wavered in the wind. Antonius was likely a far greater danger than either of those two honoured conscript fathers. What was the point in glory and reputation if one had no worthy opponent against which to measure oneself? Perhaps the Parthians would do better.

The lictor rapped on Lepidus' door with his bundle of rods and demanded entrance for the consul and dictator, Gaius Julius Caesar.

- - -

Bloodied and torn, feeling the life slip from him as his wounds – over twenty of them – seeped blood onto the marble floor, Caesar stared into the soft brown eyes of his killer.

There was silence now, after a minute or so of pure furious chaos raining down steel into his body, his face. The cut to his face – that ungrateful bastard Cassius – had cast a sheet of flowing red down his neck, joining the outpourings of the medley of other jabs and slices around his chest and shoulders. Caesar had ceased to even feel the pain as his body shut down and he folded up against – irony of ironies! – the base of Pompey's statue. His son-in-law looked out at the conspirators serenely.

Brutus came forward, knelt. Caesar had underestimated the boy. He thought he was serving his ancestors well and had come to strike the final blow. Do it then, my son, and please your mother and those brave fools who stand there waiting for you to prove yourself. The breath from my body will fan the flames that burn Rome to the ground.

Caesar's consciousness was fading even as Brutus finally drove his blade downwards into his unfeeling groin. He was helpless – neither Antonius nor Vorenus had been there in the end to beat off the assassins. Helpless, but not humiliated, like the Gaul had been. His legs already mostly covered with the ragged toga, Caesar forced his blood-starved hand to grasp the upper part of what remained of it and draw it towards his face. The world came to a sudden halt as Rome's most remarkable man surrendered to death. Caesar's arm fell.


End file.
